The Willow Road front row

During our year sharing the Willow Road house, Russell, Ally, and I formed a tight-knit, happy trio. Ally was already a wonderful cook, but she possessed that restless drive to get even better. She eventually signed up for a professional cooking course held over eight successive weeks.

The arrangement was "glory of glories" for Russell and me. Ally would go to her class, they would cook up a storm, and then she would bring the evening's creations home for us to "test." To say the food was delicious would be an understatement; it was an absolute delight.

As the weeks went by, Russell and I developed a ritual of our own. Ten minutes before Ally was due to arrive, we would spring into action. We’d drag the couch across the living room and position it directly facing the front door. We would sit there side-by-side, plates balanced on our laps and cutlery clutched in our hands, literally salivating in anticipation.

Every week, when Ally finally let herself in, she was met with the same ridiculous sight: two adoring, starving men staring at her with the hopeful intensity of puppies waiting for a treat.

Ally would always burst into laughter at the spectacle, and then we would all tuck in. It remains one of my favorite memories of our time together—a perfect slice of domestic happiness where the only thing better than the food was the theater of waiting for it.

The Franschhoek threesome

In the early days of our relationship,  Ally and I escaped to Franschhoek for a romantic weekend. We’d found a cute, secluded cottage on a farm—the kind of place designed for long, slow mornings.

Our first day began exactly as planned. We woke up in a sprawling, comfortable bed and spent the morning enjoying the rare luxury of being able to laze around. We canoodled, cuddled, and did exactly what loving couples do when they have nowhere else to be.

At around 10:30 AM, we finally decided it was time to face the day. Ally stood up and peeled back the heavy duvet to let the bed breathe.

There, nestled in the warm hollow where we had just been lying, was a scorpion.

It was a small, brown fellow—exactly the kind you don't want to find in your linens. As every South African knows, there are two main types of scorpions: the big, black ones with impressive pincers but a relatively mild sting, and the small, brown ones with tiny pincers and a massive, potentially lethal sting.

Our uninvited guest was the latter.

We stood there in horrified silence, realizing we had spent the last several hours sharing our most intimate space with a high-velocity venom delivery system. The "romantic morning" was instantly replaced by a frantic search for a glass jar.

We eventually caught him, escorted him to a far-off corner of the farm, and asked him very politely to never seek a "threesome" with us again. Thankfully, he took the hint, and it remains the only time in our relationship where we’ve had to worry about a third party in the bed—especially one with a tail.

Memorable moments: The Observatory leak

Back in Cape Town, Russell, Roger, and I had a regular, somewhat clandestine ritual: the Sex Quiz in Observatory. It was held in a private basement area of a local pub, tucked away from the more "prudish" patrons upstairs.

The highlight of the night was a round where the quizmaster would play snippets from various adult films. The challenge was simple: guess what happened next. You earned a point for a correct answer, and another if your guess was funny enough to make the room roar. To facilitate this "educational" exercise, a TV was mounted high on the basement wall.

One night, we were deep into the third snippet—a particularly explicit scene that required some creative guesswork. Suddenly, a flustered pub staff member came sprinting down the stairs, looking like he’d seen a ghost (or at least something he wasn't supposed to).

He spoke urgently to the quizmaster, who hit the "Stop" button with panicked speed.

It turned out that the pub’s technical team had forgotten one crucial detail that evening: they hadn't separated the TV feeds. Throughout the entire building—including the main bar and the quiet family restaurant upstairs—every screen was showing our "private" quiz content.

It was the ultimate reminder that in life, just when you think you’re in a private "basement" of your own making, the rest of the world might just be watching the broadcast.

Memorable moments: The fountain of marketing

In 1999, during my final year at Old Mutual, we embarked on the annual Christmas pilgrimage—a high-stakes event where free beer and corporate hierarchies rarely mix well. The plan was sophisticated enough: a bus trip to Darling to watch the legendary Pieter-Dirk Uys perform, followed by a lunch where the booze flowed with alarming frequency.

By the time we boarded the bus for the hour-long journey back to Cape Town, the "festive spirit" had taken a firm hold of the passengers. Rodney, from Agency Marketing, was particularly well-lubricated. Finding the seats full, he decided to improvise, perched precariously on a ledge at the very front of the bus, facing the crowd like a weary king on a makeshift throne.

Halfway home, the unexpected happened. Without warning, and seemingly without moving a muscle, Rodney began to pee.

It wasn't a subtle leak; it was a high-velocity event. The stream was so powerful it acted like a literal fountain, erupting from his trousers and spraying the first four rows of the bus in a golden arc. The transition from "drunken commute" to "waterpark nightmare" was instantaneous.

Pandemonium erupted. People screamed, dove for cover, and tried to use their gift bags as shields, but the bus was a confined space and Rodney’s "marketing strategy" was remarkably wide-reaching.

Rodney didn't lose his job that day, but he did achieve a form of immortality. He became a legend of the infamous kind—the man who literally "poured" his heart and soul into the front row. While he remained on the payroll, it’s safe to say that whenever a promotion was discussed, the conversation probably ended with a very specific, damp memory of the Darling bus.

Memorable moments: The Quizmaster’s missed calling

Russell has a vast, almost intimidating general knowledge. He possesses a photographic memory that never fails; I also have a photographic memory, though I usually forget to take the lens cap off. This makes him a formidable opponent in any trivia setting, and an even better Quizmaster. During the COVID lockdowns in Australia, he’d gather all my local friends on Zoom from Cape Town and host brilliantly fun sessions that kept us all sane.

But the true extent of Russell’s "genius" really shone through during the infamous sex quizzes we used to attend in Cape Town pubs.

The format was simple but inspired: the Quizmaster would show a scene from a vintage adult film—nothing too extreme—and we had to guess what happened next. You’d get a point for accuracy, but more importantly, you’d get a point for making the room laugh.

Russell was in a league of his own. His predictions for the "next scene" were consistently more creative, elaborate, and hilarious than the actual movie. Whether it was an unexpected plumber-related plot twist or a bizarrely timed monologue, his "scripts" were far superior to the real thing.

I’m convinced Russell missed his true calling as a writer-director in the adult industry, specifically in the untapped genre of "Comedy Porn."

It takes a special kind of genius to turn a blue movie into a red-faced comedy routine. Russell’s photographic memory and quick wit made him the undisputed king of the pub quiz, reminding us all that if you aren't laughing at the ridiculousness of life (and especially sex), you’re probably doing it wrong.

Memorable moments: The Willow Road olympics

During the years Russell and I were housemates at Willow Road, the house became a laboratory for high-stakes, low-budget adrenaline. We didn't need a gym; we had a three-seater couch and a dangerous amount of competitive energy.

Our Couch Jumping competitions were a masterclass in poor risk management. The goal was to clear the entire length of the sofa in a single leap, which required a massive run-up and a violent "emergency brake" landing. We’d stick the landing, panting and triumphant, with our toes skidding just inches away from a literal death plummet off the balcony.

Then there was the day of the Garden Cane Duel.

Dressed in our bathrobes—which felt appropriately "regal" for the sport—we engaged in a ferocious fencing match. We weren't just poking; we were really laying into it. Russell landed several sharp, swishing blows across my shoulders that stung like a swarm of hornets.

Determined to counter, I swung back with a lucky—though profoundly unlucky for him—swish that caught him squarely across the nipple. The resulting yelp of agony was instantaneous. We were doubled over, a mess of terry cloth and bamboo, caught in that strange space between genuine pain and hysterical laughter.

It was at exactly this moment that Russell’s brother, Roger, walked in.

He stood in the doorway, staring in genuine horror at two grown men in bathrobes, armed with sticks, sweating, and clutching their injuries in a living room that looked like a disaster zone.  We tried to explain the "logic" of the match—the rules of the bathrobe-fencing and the strategic importance of the couch-jump—but I think he realized then what we already knew: at Willow Road, if it wasn't slightly dangerous or entirely ridiculous, it wasn't worth doing. 

Memorable moments: The millionaire mockery

Brothers Russell and Roger are among my closest friends, and our friendship has always been fueled by a mutual love for the well-executed prank. In 1999, when Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? first exploded onto South African television, the stakes for our brand of mischief reached an all-time high.

Both brothers possess prodigious general knowledge, having honed their trivia skills through years of grueling pub quizzes. Russell was the first to take the plunge. He applied for the show and, a month later, received the coveted "screening call." The producers filtered contestants with a numerical logic question—something like, "How many standard bricks would it take to pave a tennis court?" You had to deduce the answer on the spot; the closest estimates won a seat in the studio.

Russell made the cut. We all tuned in to watch him dominate the "Fastest Finger First" round and take the hot seat. He was brilliant, breezing through the levels until a tricky question about the Winter Olympics finally stumped him. He retired with a cool R32,000—not a bad haul for a single night’s work.

Naturally, Roger was itching to follow in his brother’s footsteps. The competitive fire was lit, which provided Russell and me with the perfect opening.

I have a bit of a knack for voices, so I called Roger’s house and adopted my most professional, "Stacey-from-the-production-office" tone.

"Hello, Roger. This is the production team for Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? We are currently screening for our next round of contestants. As you know, we require you to logically deduce a numerical answer. The closest contestant to the correct figure will be invited to the studio."

Roger was instantly beside himself with excitement. He was hooked.

"The question for you, Roger, is this: Exactly how many pages are there in total in the complete 32-volume set of the Encyclopedia Britannica?"

"Oh... oh dear," Roger stammered. "Let me see... can I confer with my friend here for a moment?"

"You have sixty seconds," I replied frostily.

What followed was pure comedic gold. We could hear them frantically whispering in the background, trying to calculate the average thickness of a volume, the density of the paper, and the likely page count per inch. It was a masterpiece of desperate, high-speed mathematics.

Finally, Roger came back to the phone, sounding breathless but confident. He delivered a number he had practically sweated over—something incredibly specific, like 32,640.

I stayed perfectly in character. I let the silence hang for a long, dramatic beat.

"Thank you, Roger," I said, my voice dripping with official gravity. "Now, for the tie-breaker: How many individual feathers are on a standard, adult South African Ostrich?"

That was the breaking point. There was a beat of stunned silence before Roger started to protest. "Wait... what? Is that even logically deducible? How on earth could I—"

At that moment, Russell and I both lost it. The "production office" collapsed into a fit of hysterical giggles as I dropped the accent. Roger was fuming for a solid minute, his brain still stuck in "Encyclopedia" mode while we roared with laughter at the other end.

He didn't get the R32,000, and he certainly didn't get to the hot seat, but he did eventually see the funny side. It turns out that while he knew everything about the world’s most famous encyclopedia, he’d completely forgotten the first rule of our friendship: Never trust a phone call from Russell and Graeme.

Memorable moments: The double-decker betrayal

One evening, leaving my office at Old Mutual, I was hit by a wave of ravenous, prehistoric hunger. The kind of hunger that bypasses logic and heads straight for the nearest Spur restaurant. I pulled over and ordered the largest thing on the menu: a "Double Decker" giant burger, flanked by a mountain of chips and enough onion rings to build a small tower.

I inhaled it. By the time I wiped the last bit of sauce from my face, I wasn't just sated; I was physically compromised. I felt like a snake that had swallowed a particularly large goat.

I waddled through my front door, only to be greeted by my girlfriend’s radiant, expectant smile.

"Just in time!" Ally chirped. "I’ve been cooking that fancy meal I promised you all afternoon."

My blood ran cold. I’d completely forgotten. She lived to cook, and more importantly, she lived to watch me eat. She settled into her chair and watched me like a hawk, waiting for that signature look of "Myburgh-pleasure" to cross my face.

I performed like an Oscar-winner. I chewed, I hummed, and I forced every forkful of that "fancy" dinner into a stomach that was already at maximum capacity. Against all odds, I cleared the plate. I had done it. I was safe.

Then, she stood up with a triumphant glint in her eye.

"And now," she announced, "for dessert!"

She marched back into the kitchen and returned with a massive, steaming helping of sticky date pudding, buried under a literal mound of thick, yellow custard.

I went in looking for a quick burger; I left realizing that the only thing heavier than a Spur Double Decker is the weight of a lie topped with extra custard.

Memorable moments: The apology

In 1996, I flew to London to meet Ally—my girlfriend and future wife-to-be—who had been living and working there for a year while I remained back in Cape Town. The plan was simple: reunite, then head off travelling together.

This was, of course, a different world. A world before everyone carried a mobile phone in their pocket. Back then, communication relied heavily on those iconic red phone boxes scattered across London like little beacons of connection.

On one particular day, I decided to visit the Imperial War Museum while Ally finished work. We planned to meet later and begin our adventure.

At some point, I stepped into a phone box to give her a call.

I was mid-conversation—chatting away, probably discussing travel plans—when suddenly, without warning, I felt rough hands grab me and yank me out of the booth.

Before I knew it, I was pushed up against the glass exterior.

Two policemen.

Serious. Urgent.

“Who are you speaking to?!”

Now, it turns out that just a minute before I had stepped into that very phone box, someone had made a bomb threat from it.

And now here I was—freshly installed inside the crime scene—cheerfully calling my girlfriend.

Not ideal timing.

They questioned me, then spoke to Ally, who—thankfully—confirmed my entirely innocent, slightly bewildered story. Gradually, the tension eased. The grip loosened. The suspicion drained.

Eventually, they stepped back.

“You’re free to go,” one of them said.

Then, in a moment that could only happen in Britain, the same officer reached into his pocket, pressed a 20-pence piece into my palm, and offered a polite nod.

"Terribly sorry about that, sir," he said. "A small token of our apology so you can finish your call."

And just like that, I went from suspected terrorist to mildly inconvenienced customer—politely compensated and returned to the phone box.

Memorable moments: The lift fiasco

Fresh out of university and armed with a brand-new suit and a "Trainee Marketing Consultant" title, I arrived for my first day at Old Mutual. I was a ball of nerves, ready to conquer the corporate world—or at least find the reception desk.

I stepped into the lift and pressed '1'. The car hummed upward and came to a smooth halt.

The doors didn't budge.

Panic set in immediately. Stuck. On my first day. I’m going to be late. I’m going to die in a life assurance building before my policy even kicks in. I began frantically eyeing the alarm button, bracing for a morning of claustrophobic humiliation.

Then, a calm voice drifted in from behind me.

"Can we help you?"

I spun around. It turns out the lift had doors on both sides. The "wall" behind me had slid open seconds ago, revealing the entire office—who were now silently enjoying the view of a terrified trainee staring intensely at a solid metal panel.

Needless to say, I made quite an entrance.

Photos from my wedding

Priceless memories of a precious day. 

Beautiful Ally

Ceremony

Ally and me

Love is a kiss

The wedding party

Reception

Bridesmaids

Related links

• Our wedding day
• Graeme and Ally (early relationship)
• Ally and Graeme (1993 - 2009)

Farewell Darling Feta

It's gutting to say goodbye to Feta. Thankfully, we have found a wonderful, friendly home for her and she's settling in well.

Farewell to Willow Road

Well, we've sold Willow Road, our Cape Town house, and it's kind of like the closing of a chapter in our lives. Home from 1990 to 2000, the place is full of special memories.


Some Highlights

• Braais on the balcony
• The view from the balcony and the views of the mountain
• Living with a range of zany, wonderful housemates like Dain, Andre, Oliver, Ben, Eleda, Peter the plumber, Peter the paramedic, Shirly, Russel, Colleen and Rory
• Romancing Ally (including suprise Chinese dinner in my room)
• Sleeping out on the balcony
• Setting the house up with Ally in 1998 when we got back from overseas
• The walk in the mountain above the house
• Strolls to nearby Kirstenbosch
• Feta, the cat
• Pikiswe, our domestic helper (ah, those were the days!)
• Judge and Niki, Eleda's pugs
• Studying for university exams with Julian
• Summer holidays
• Some great parties including my 21st birthday party
• Some fantastic dinner parties
• A couple of family Xmases
• Watching South Africa win the 1994 world cup in the lounge (ecstacy).
• Watching South Africa losing to the Australians in the world cup cricket (run, Alan, run!)
• Lots and lots of cars outside and the dispair of the poor neighbours
• Gerald and the Edwards
• Silvia, my silver monza
• Waking up to the automatic irrigation system at 6 am in the morning
• The wild garden
• Walks up the hill at night to see the amazing views of the suburbs and check out other houses
• The chocabloc garage
• Furniture olympics

Welcome little Sammy!